Gone
by squibstitcher
Summary: O/S for the Black Balloon Competition. One mistake. One tragedy. Countless repercussions. Everything that they’d hoped, dreamed and built together would be shattered in an instant. All their securities, everything that mattered…gone. AH/canon pairings.


**The Black Balloon Contest**

**Title: "Gone"**

**Your pen name: Squibstitcher**

**Characters: Bella/Edward**

**Disclaimer: Don't Own.**

**Beta: TwoWackyKids-- thank you so much! **

**Pre-reader: Maleficentknits-- Thanks bb!**

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Gone.

I awoke to the feel of a warm body pressed to my back. The soft cadence of slow measured breaths; the metronome of silence and sleep. It was foreign to me. The feeling was not one I was familiar with. My husband had not touched me like this for such a long time.

My eyes cracked open in confusion and disorientation. Long shadows darkened the painted hues of our room; everything muted and dreary with the dawn. A glance at the clock on my nightstand informed me it was just after six. My clammy legs were twisted in the sheets; my nightshirt clung to my body like a damp shroud. Night sweats.

With a trembling hand, I reached behind and ghosted a trail over the body pressed into mine. I found small soft curves where I expected there to be long sinewy muscle. My fingers lit upon silken curls where there should have been course stubble. With effort, I freed my lower body from the constricting fabric and managed to roll over. I expected to find the face of my husband—brow furrowed, because even in sleep he maintained a constant and vigilant seriousness. But Edward was gone, his side of the bed already abandoned, and although this was nothing new, the ache in my chest grew just a fraction more. Because for one moment I had allowed myself to hope—in that in-between time of consciousness and not, when inhibitions and past scars are bound to the edges of reality, reason gave way to feeling. Feelings I had not allowed myself to entertain for far too long. The hope fled my body on raven's wings; back was the familiar cocktail of numbness and despondency.

Sleeping oh so peacefully on his side was our son. Colby was curled up into a tight ball, having kicked the covers off of his small body as he was prone to do. Tiny knees were tucked into his chest, tiny hands fisted under his chin. A sliver of his pale tummy peaked through the gap between his diaper and his shirt. So sweet; so innocent. My hand hovered over his little frame and longed to touch him with love and affection. To be the maternal light and warmth and comfort that I was supposed to be. But I could not bring myself to do it. To do so would feel so false.

I pulled my hand away and clenched my shaking fist to my side. Familiar waves of nausea and heat crept over me, and I prickled and tingled with the anxiety I wore like a second skin. My breaths were shallow, my throat tight as I tried to bury the overwhelming sensations and regain control.

I left the bed, placing pillows on either side of my son so he wouldn't roll off onto the floor. I pulled the comforter up over his body and tucked it in to keep him safe and warm.

A surrogate embrace, more comforting than mine could ever be.

I padded into the bathroom. Restless hands ferreted around for plastic amber bottles with white caps. Haunted eyes flickered over every surface but the vanity mirror. I couldn't look at myself. I could not face yet another day of the lifeless soul that would stare back from my reflection. The broken shell of a woman that once was. I placed two pills on my tongue and swallowed them dry. I closed my eyes and let my head and shoulders fall in defeat.

Undressing quickly I turned on the shower and let the steam accumulate. It would fog the glass and hide the image of my body. The body that I despised; a body worn down almost as much on the outside as it was on the inside. My skin was pallid white, but my heart was black as pitch.

Stepping into the spray, I closed my eyes as soapy hands traversed doughy flesh. I did not think about how my breasts felt heavy and limp with postpartum sag. I thought of how they used to feel firm and round and fit perfectly into Edward's reverent palms. I did not think about the dimpled skin of my hips and thighs that were now twice the size they used to be. I thought about how long and lean they once were as they wrapped around Edward's frame in the throes of passion. I did not think of the puckered tissue of my stretched abdomen. I thought instead of the now non-existent tiny waist that Edward's gentle hands used to envelope, almost entirely, as he clung to me like I was the center of his universe.

I sank to the floor of the shower stall, my too round ass cold on the tiles beneath me and let the water mix with tears that I could only shed in silence and solitude. Where once Edward would wash them away with tender kisses and ghosting fingertips, now there was only the indifference of scalding water. I let my despair run off my body in rushing rivulets and trickle down the drain as the meds kicked in. And once my shaky limbs could support my weight, I stepped out onto the mat and into a new day that would surely be like all the rest. I wore a chemically induced mask of indifference and false calm because that is what people wanted to see. What they needed to see. And I steeled myself to face another day in the company of my demons.

Colby was still asleep when I returned to my room to get dressed. I left him to slumber in peace, and went to the kitchen to make coffee. I could feel Edward behind me without looking to confirm he was there. It had always been that way. I had always been drawn to him like a beacon. In the beginning he was a light guiding my path to safety and security—my lighthouse of hope and love. But his light had long since flickered out and now I was left to flounder aimlessly in the dark to crash upon the rocks, never to find the shore. And it was all my fault; I did that to him. I was darkness and black and poison. And my poison seeped into his heart and killed all that was grace and kindness and adoration. I put out his light. Now when I felt him, it was hurt and pain and apprehension that radiated out. The pull was still there but it manifested itself differently. It did not bring us closer to one another; it tore us further apart.

Edward did not look at me, or I at him as we skirted around each other in the confined space. The tension was too thick and for all the wide girth we were so careful to keep between us, it was still condensed and weighty. The fact of the matter was we could not look at each other. He could not look into my eyes and see the ghosts that lingered there that he was powerless to vanquish. And I could not look into his eyes and see the resignation and disdain.

Just then Colby waddles into the room, all pink cheeks, and bed head, and sleep crusted eyes that he rubs with his pudgy little baby fists. He looks between us, his two parents and his whole world, and there is nothing but trust and love reflected from the emerald irises that are exactly like his father's.

So Edward and I do what we always do, what we have to do. We hide our weapons of self-destruction and we hide our wounds because Colby should not be a part of that, even if he is at the heart of it. We don smiling faces for our child that we can only hope he believes, and proceed with this precarious façade for his sake. And we do this because he is everything good and right in our world. Even if I can't feel it, I can see it, and I know it's true. And when Edward looks at him with the love and adoration that he used to have for me, I crumble and break that much more. And I am vile, so very vile to be jealous of my own child. To be jealous of something that we made out of love and that I let tear us apart.

Colby's eyes were riveted on his father; wide, innocent and happy. Edward bent down to scoop him up into his arms, where he could snuggle close. I turned away and back to my coffee on the counter. I listened as they chatted lightheartedly about furry red puppets and recited the alphabet. Pushing, always pushing; Edward had merely scoffed when I had protested before that a two year old was too young to learn the alphabet. And of course they had both proved me wrong; his diligence paid off as he worked to harness our child's full potential.

Perhaps if he had pushed me, pushed for us just a little bit harder things might have been different. That's not to say that Edward hadn't tried, because he had. Perhaps if I had tried to meet him half way things might have been different. Either way it was inconsequential now. Playing Monday morning quarterback would warrant nothing other than a healthy dose of chagrin. We'd made our bed, or so the saying goes.

I sat across from the highchair spooning lumpy oatmeal into Colby's mouth. Neither one of us paying much attention to what we were doing. Colby was restless and wanted down to play; my thoughts were elsewhere, always elsewhere—I'd checked out long ago. Muscle memory guided my hand out of necessity; forcing my body to carry out the mundane operations that were expected of me but internally I was a million miles away.

Eventually, I gave up and let him down. Colby hurried off on bare feet that smacked on the cold floor. Soundlessly I walked down the hall back to my bedroom. Edward had already finished showering and was finishing getting dressed. I watched him tie his shoes and straighten his tie before standing. He'd noticed me standing in the doorway and cleared his throat. His eyes flickered briefly to mine before darting away, waiting for me to speak.

"I'm going out to pick up some things from the store today. Is there anything you need?" my voice sounded cracked and hollow to my own ears.

Edward stood quietly by the edge of the bed, not moving and staring at the floor to avoid my eyes. I could see the muscles clenching and twisting in his jaw and wondered what it was that he wanted to say and was so obviously biting back. After a moment he finally shook his head slightly and I took that as my dismissal. I didn't ask him what time he would be home. It didn't really matter and I didn't really care.

An hour later, I found myself chasing Colby around the house trying to get him ready to go. Toys and blocks were scattered like landmines across the floor and I picked them up along the way to dump them unceremoniously back in his room. He kicked and squirmed beneath me as I tried to get his shoes on. I could feel my patience wearing thin.

"Colby, stop it! We need to go bye-bye and you need to be still!" My tone was harsh and louder than I'd intended.

His bottom lip protruded in a pout as he gazed back at me in fear and sadness. I could see tears welling up in his little eyes and I immediately felt guilty for my outburst. I took several deep breaths willing myself to calm down. I felt like an asshole yelling at him but I also lacked the conviction to soothe him now that the damage was done. I could not bring myself to envelope him in my arms and hold his little face to my chest to whisper words of love and apology.

"Come on, let's go," I whispered as calmly as I could. It was the best I could offer.

The rain was coming down heavily now and I hurried out to the car to load him into the backseat. I sat him down in his car seat and flung my purse in the front. It was cold and the windows were foggy so I decided to start the car to get the heat and defrost going. Colby was full on wailing now; he hated car rides and was upset by my abruptness from a few minutes ago. I could tell this was going to be one hell of a day.

He kicked and thrashed beneath me as I leaned over the console to start the ignition. His feet connected with my ribs several times and I bit the inside of my mouth to keep from screaming back at him. The rain was soaking through the layers of my clothing and my back felt like it was being pummeled with ice. I could feel my muscles tightening painfully from the stress.

I pulled back upright to look at Colby, my insides felt like fire and I was seething. My hands were shaking as I went to secure the straps of his five-point harness. He fought me the entire time, batting away at my hands and bucking in the seat. Meanwhile, I was only getting colder and wetter in the rain as I struggled to get him to sit still. I reached down into the diaper bag to retrieve his pacifier. He batted it away blindly not even noticing what it was until it was gone. Of course, this led to more screams for the pacifier and when I turned to see where it had landed, I caught a glimpse of the blue plastic just to watch it get swept away by the rain and down into the storm drain.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

I slammed my eyes closed trying desperately to reel myself back in. I had to calm down; I had to regain control. I stepped away from the car and closed the door. I had to shut out the crying or I would scream, and the backseat was already soaking wet. I stormed back into the house and into the kitchen to retrieve another goddamn pacifier, hoping that this time he would actually take it and settle down.

I locked the front door behind me for the second time and yanked open the driver side door to climb inside. I shifted into reverse and began to back down the driveway. Colby's wails had subsided to mere sniffles now, so I set the pacifier down on the front seat next to my purse. I turned the radio on hoping it would serve as a distraction for both of us. I was careful not to make eye contact with him in the rearview mirror; if he met my eyes, I knew he'd start crying again for my attention. Instead, I kept my focus on the road.

The weather was not letting up. If anything it was only getting worse. I sped up the on ramp onto the highway to merge with traffic. The sky ahead only grew more somber and threatening the further I went. Black clouds tinged with an eerie green hovered low on the horizon, pelting down relentless sheets of blinding rain. I was really regretting my decision to venture out to the store today.

Traffic slowed to a crawl with the reduced visibility. All I could see ahead of me was a wall of flickering break lights, their red glow diffused and blurry. Depth perception was practically zero. Seeing as how we weren't really getting anywhere anyhow, I decided to pull off onto the shoulder to wait it out. I flipped my blinker on and cut the wheel to the right. There was a sudden blast of a car horn behind me, followed immediately by the earsplitting crunch of glass and metal. Then everything went black.

When I reopened my eyes I instantly knew where I was; the sights and sound as familiar as home. I knew I was at the hospital. I knew I was drifting somewhere along the cusp of pain and medicinal oblivion. I knew I was not alone in the room. And I knew that something was wrong, very wrong, and whatever it was, would be more painful than my physical injuries. Whatever that 'wrong' was that kept eluding my morphine-addled mind was important.

I could feel my breaths grow shallower in anticipation as the panic set in—panic that had no catalyst as of yet. The elusive 'wrong' still had no face, no name, but it was there nonetheless. Heavy eyelids cracked open to let in the light both literally and proverbially. I glanced around in apprehension, afraid to embrace whatever reality lay in wait to swallow me whole. Because that is exactly what it felt like. It felt like I stood on the precipice of an abyss that churned with misery and anguish. The simplest nudge would send me careening over.

Edward stood braced in the doorway of my room. His arms were crossed over his chest and his shoulders were drawn in. Clenched fists shook with restraint. An anger and sadness so profound, it could almost be its own separate entity, radiated off of him. He did not look at me. Didn't once glance my way as I let out a shuddering sigh. I closed my eyes for a moment and when I reopened them he was gone. He never returned.

Days later, someone came to see me. Someone official from the looks of it; he did not wear scrubs or a white lab coat; he wore a lanyard I.D. and a dark suit. My body and mind still felt trapped in a haze and I struggled to understand what he was telling me. It felt like an out of body experience as he gave me the information that I needed to know but never wanted to hear. Bits and pieces came together like a bad signal on the radio. Colby. Colby was dead. The accident. Investigation. Crime scene. Seatbelt. Ejected from the vehicle. Not buckled. Criminal negligence. Dead on arrival.

And then it happened. That little nudge I had feared came in the form of a startling blow. I was knocked forcefully over the precipice and into the abyss. I learned something in that moment. I learned that pain, like love, knows no bounds. That it grows to accommodate whatever life brings.

The days that followed were shrouded in numbness. Time sped and slowed in varying degrees in what seemed like no rhyme or reason. My life was no longer my own and I felt like a marionette puppet vulnerable to whatever strings were pulled. I went through the motions as guided. On the surface I still breathed, still had a pulse, but the blackness had finally consumed me and I was dead, so very dead, inside.

Colby's funeral was on a Sunday and this felt wrong. He had been born on a Sunday, and it felt wrong to bury him on the same day. It felt like his day of birth was cheated having to share that with this. It felt too clinical and clean to make bookends of the events. It was just wrong. But the similarities stopped there. Colby had come into this world screaming his head off in the middle of the night during a nasty electrical storm. Today he lay still as stone underneath a cloudless sky with the sun too hot and too bright on our backs.

I didn't want to look at the coffin. I didn't want to stare at the tiny box that held my son. Coffins should never be that small; it was unnatural. I could not come to terms with the idea of his restless spirit being confined inside. Colby was larger than life and this little box surely could not contain that.

My eyes darted everywhere but to that damned box. I glimpsed Edward who stood stoic across from me. Not by my side. I felt flighty and volatile with panic but he was the exact opposite. It was as if all his grief had been buried so deep inside that he imploded with it. Edward's body was still and reverent; only his eyes betrayed how broken and lost he truly was, eyes that never looked my way. Not once. And when I would watch him for too long, his face would tense up with bottled rage. After all the things I had done before, this was the final straw. I had finally destroyed any good that was left in him. I had taken away his son—his life. And he would never forgive me for that.

At the house, everything was metaphorical carnage, and we treaded lightly around emotional landmines and the desecration that lay out before us. There was no life in this house, only decay and ruin. Every dream, every hope lay strewn out in mass graves like countless casualties. We avoided each other at all costs. I clung to the dark corners and the far side of the house like a ghoul. I never ventured near the back of the house where Colby's ghost could haunt me. I could not bring myself to walk into his room and taint his memory with my vile presence. On the contrary, Edward rarely left it. He was always in Colby's room clinging to the memories like a drowning man. There was nothing left for either of us, and while Edward struggled to find a lifeline in the chaos I resolved to fade into its oblivion.

Crumpled and vacant-eyed, I lay in heap on the floor. Silent screams wracked my body. I was caged in a prison of grief and pain that was of my own making.

Colby was gone.

Edward was gone.

Everything was gone.


End file.
